


July, 2000

by JJK



Series: Life, Interrupted [8]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Time Travel, beach, this is really just some adorable fluff to make up for the last few chapters, time traveler's wife au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/pseuds/JJK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There weren’t many times that Grantaire had cause to like his condition, but this was definitely one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	July, 2000

_Summer, Unknown (Grantaire is 28)_  


Grantaire wriggled his toes in the hot white sand. It glinted in the sun as rays bounced off the crushed shells and flecks of mica. Before him waves lapped gently on the shore line, little vanguards of bubbling ripples that broke over one another, endlessly advancing on the sand. Above, sat an empty horizon mixed with the fathomless blue of the sky. The only clouds were faintest traces, wisps of white almost indistinguishable from the light blue at eye level. As he tipped his head back to let the sun beat down on his cheeks he saw the gradient deepen; hint at the eons of space which were barely held back by the atmosphere.  


He seemed to be alone on the beach, glancing around it didn’t become immediately obvious how you would get down to it. A grassy hill sloped up behind him, covered in thick, exotic looking brambles that he didn’t fancy pushing his way through. It was only on closer inspection that he spotted a little footpath. Trees lined the top of the hill, closely packed and green, giving it an air of secluded privacy.  


Grantaire didn’t have the faintest idea where he was, but he wasn’t about to complain. This was almost as nice as the meadow. He didn’t have any clothes, but he figured he didn’t really need any, and made a bee line for the water.  


The waves crashed around his ankles and splashed up his legs as he waded through, half jogging. After a dozen or so long strides he drew his arms up over his head and dived forwards, propelling himself forwards underwater for a while before breaking the surface and letting out a satisfied sigh. The deep set ache that had plagued his knee for months began to ease slightly. Maybe he should try swimming more often.  


He dragged a hand down over his face, dislodging the water from his eye lashes, and shook his hair out. This was the life. He grinned, swimming up and down with graceful loping strokes. And to think, that morning he’d been looking forward to a day of reorganising the _Microorganisms, Fungi and Algae_ section of the library.  


There weren’t many times that Grantaire had cause to like his condition, but this was definitely one of them.  


He ducked under again, pushing up to twist on his back and float gently.  


The beach stretched round for miles; a wide swathe of white gold against the yellowing green of the hill and the dark of the tree line. It was the kind of beach you’d make a bonfire on and sit all night under the stars. The perfect antidote for any and all stress; it was blissful.  


He loped up and down until his muscles began to ache, and he could feel the sun soaked into his shoulders. At least this time he’d come from July and sunburn would be less out of place.  


Wading back to shore he flopped onto the sand, letting the baking heat of the sun press down and dry him out. As calm as he was, he couldn’t shake the feeling that at any moment something unwelcome would come tearing down the path. A smuggling cartel or a bear, or something – knowing his luck. And then there the slight unease that came from not knowing where he was.  


His best guess, location wise, was somewhere in South America, although that hardly narrowed it down. The beach was far too pristine and empty to belong in California, not humid or commercialised enough for Florida. Too warm for anywhere more north and there was no way Grantaire was ever getting on a plane. In reality he could have been anywhere, and it honestly didn’t matter; but he couldn’t quell his curiosity, and who knew how long he might be stuck here?  


It was pointless speculating, he realised, so instead he forced himself to go and investigate. Brushing the sand off him he meandered over the path. The sun making him too lethargic for anything more than a stroll.  


The sand gave way to dry earth, packed close together by the heat, but loose and dusty on the top, rubbing between his toes. He began to understand why the beach had been deserted; no one would be able to find it. The path twisted and turned for what felt like ages and the forest gave no sign of letting up.  


Eventually he came across a road, but there were no sign posts, no sign of any cars; just a ribbon of tarmac that had seen better days, which disappeared into the distance.  


He gave it up as a loss and trundled back to the mystery beach. He knee was beginning to ache, he’d lost track of how long he’d been walking for. The twists and turns in the path were deceptive and the trees all looked the same, until they suddenly fell away. He had time for one last glance of the clear blue water, sun bouncing off the crests of the swells, before he was ripped back to the library.  


=  


_July, 2000 (Enjolras is 24, Grantaire is 28)_  


He skidded into a bookshelf, arms flung out instantly to steady himself.  


He blinked, eyes protesting to the sudden change in light. It was dark. Darker than usual. The only light came through the windows set near the top of the high walls, and the soft green glow from the emergency exits. The library was obviously closed.  


He wondered if anyone had noticed that he’d disappeared for a whole day. Jehan probably had. That little sprite didn’t miss much. Speaking of whom, he normally left Grantaire’s clothes folded neatly in some inconspicuous place near where he’d Travelled. Jehan didn’t know, so what he must have thought of Grantaire was a source of some amusement. A bipolar, possibly schizophrenic with a sever aversion to wearing clothes, most likely. Whatever his opinion was, he was kind enough to keep it to himself and Grantaire knew it was because of Jehan, and his inexhaustible capacity to lie for him, that he still had a job.  


After searching in all of the usual places it became clear that his clothes were missing.  


It was after closing time; perhaps Carl the janitor had cleared them away.  


He scurried through the alley ways of books towards his office. He kept a spare change in there for emergencies such as this, but as he pulled on the handle he found that it was locked. Grantaire wasn’t above breaking into his office, but it more effort than it was worth. Besides, he saw the door to Dr. Spengleman’s was propped open down the corridor so he scampered towards it.  


Sure enough, there was a lab coat hanging on the coat stand in the corner of the room. It was decidedly better than nothing, so Grantaire shrugged it on and pulled the door too. He only lived five minutes from the library – and to be perfectly honest, he’d walked home in far worse.  


The library was an old building, a rabbit warren of forgotten staircases and doors. He’d soon learned his way around them all and could slip unnoticed through the stacks of books with practised ease. It wasn’t long before he was climbing out of a helpful sash window on the south side of the library, into an unused back alley which lead to the main road. He re-did the buttons which had popped open during his acrobatic escape, and flicked up the collar, stuffed his hands in the pockets and marched down the alley with an attitude that shouted _yes I am wearing nothing but a lab coat, why the hell not?_ It was going pretty well for him, until he ran into Jehan sitting on a bench round the corner from the library, scribbling into a flower patterned notebook.  


“Grantaire!” he shouted in surprise.  


Clearly trying to sneak past was out of the question, so Grantaire changed course and headed for the little poet.  


“I had no idea you were still inside. I’m so sorry; I wouldn’t have locked up.”  


“What are you still doing here?” he asked, possibly a little more sharply than he’d intended.  


“Waiting for Courfeyrac. What are you doing in Dr. Spengleman’s lab coat?” Jehan returned.  


“Someone hid my clothes.” He shuffled his weight from foot to foot, beginning to wish he’d made the effort to break into his office after all.  


“I put them in your office.”  


“Oh,” he flicked his eyes back at Jehan. That actually made sense. Damn, why hadn’t he bothered – the locks were hardly substantial. “Thanks, but it was locked.”  


“Yes,” Jehan had slowly. “I had Carl open it for me. I figured you had a key.” He shrugged.  


“The key was in the pocket of my jeans,”  


“Oh.” Jehan shrugged slightly, but looked defiant as he continued, “well I’m not sorry. If you didn’t want your clothes to be lost, then you shouldn’t really have taken them off.” He flashed a grin at Grantaire that told him he was about to _ask_.  


Grantaire was surprisingly not annoyed. It been a long time coming – he owed Jehan an explanation.  


Thankfully, or perhaps not, Courfeyrac decided to show up at the moment. His lime green VW camper van – which looked ridiculous in the middle of Chicago, but somehow suited Courfeyrac to a tee – pulling to a stop by the curb.  


“You still coming over to ours for dinner later?” Jehan asked, closing his notebook and standing up.  


“We’ll give you a lift if you like!” Courfeyrac shouted from the Courf Mobile (as named by Courfeyrac, of course).  


Grantaire had completely forgotten.  


“I’ll need to stop at mind for some clothes,” he said. To which Courfeyrac just grinned.  


“The slutty scientist look wasn’t intentional then? And here I thought it was an early birthday present for Enjolras.”  


“Shut up.” Grantaire shook his head good naturedly.  


“Care to explain why you’re wearing a lab coat and nothing but a lab coat?”  


“He was just about to,” Jehan smiled, climbing shotgun into the campervan and twisting to face him. “I take it you didn’t really have to dash home to look after your sick aunt, so where were you really?”  


Grantaire grinned. The sick aunt was a fabrication of Jehan’s – who had woven a surprising amount of detail into the story. At one point the library staff had been collecting for flowers, until Grantaire had assured them it _really_ wasn’t necessary.  


“It’s a long story,” he fenced.  


“We’ve got time.”  


“Alright.” He conceded. “I spent the day sunbathing on a beach somewhere south of Mexico. Last week when I slipped out for an afternoon it was re-visit May of last year where I found myself being arrested for indecent exposure. Two days before that I met up with my eight year old self in a shopping mall and we got ice cream.”  


Silence hung in the minivan as it travelled through the streets of Chicago, passing under the metro line.  


“I time travel.” Grantaire continued, when it became apparent neither of them were going to say anything. “Involuntarily, uncontrollably. I don’t know what causes it, but ever since I was five years old I’ve been sporadically travelling throughout my past and future and to be truly honest it’s a fucking pain in the ass.”  


“Time travel,” Jehan said slowly.  


“You’re either mad, or some sort of super hero.” Courfeyrac grinned at him in the rear view mirror.  


“How about both?” Grantaire snickered, shaking his head.  


“Well, I have to say I’m a little disappointed.”  
Grantaire was confused.  


“The sun burn.” Courfeyrac shrugged. “Enjolras’ hair doesn’t have the power of the sun after all.” He grinned at Grantaire, all teeth and crinkled eyes. “So you ran into yourself last week?”  


“Yeah, little old me.” Back when he was happy, before he knew what was about to happen. It was heart breaking. Every time it happened Grantaire wanted to pull him into a hug, and tell him to savour every last fucking second of it. Before things would collapsed and his world would shatter. But of course he didn’t. He couldn’t.  


“And that didn’t create a paradox? The space time continuum wasn’t affected?”  


“Afraid not. Hollywood lied to you.”  


“That means,” Courfeyrac’s eyes were gleaming. Grantaire began to fear what would come next. “That sometimes there are _two_ of you?”  


The innuendo was clear. To be honest, with Courfeyrac most things were an innuendo.  


Grantaire just rolled his eyes, which Courfeyrac took as a yes.  


“Enjolras is one lucky devil.”  


“Courf!” Jehan hit him. “That’s not appropriate.”  


“C’mon R, you can’t tell me you’ve never thought about it?”  


He’d done more than thought about it, but that wasn’t something he was ever, _ever_ going to tell Courfeyrac.  


“Stop it! That is not an appropriate response to finding out your friend has a time displacement disorder!”  


“You’re right. I’m sorry. So what did ancient Rome look like? Ooh! Have you been to the future? Tell me, 2015, flying cars of did Hollywood lie to me again?”  


Grantaire didn’t even try to correct Courfeyrac; he was clearly having too much fun.  


=  


He was still making ridiculous assumptions, and Jehan was shooting him apologetic glances, when they pulled up outside Enjolras’ apartment. There was no denying that he’d pretty much moved in now, especially since Courfeyrac had moved out with Jehan, but he was still momentarily surprised. The little broom closet two blocks from the library was still in his name and that was where he’d been intending to go.  


Unsurprisingly the apartment was empty. With Enjolras working as an associate for Wilbour Hapgood, he now worked approximately eighteen hours a day – and would be heading straight to Jehan and Courfeyrac’s when he finished. And Combeferre was officially an intern, which meant they hardly ever saw him anymore.  


He pulled on a pair of dark jeans and a green polo shirt, grabbing the spare keys and back up wallet from his side of the bed and resolutely ignoring his reflection, and the poofy salt crisped hair and sunburnt cheeks that would greet him.  


Slipping into a pair of canvas pumps that had seen better days he ruffled his hair and locked up the apartment, jogging down the staircase – his knee holding up just fine – back to the waiting lime green excuse for a vehicle.  


“Who really shot Kennedy?” Courfeyrac greeted him. “Was Shakespeare really gay?”

**Author's Note:**

> So this chapter was a little holiday indulgent (can you tell I wrote it on the beach?) 
> 
> -
> 
> As always, my eternal thanks for [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) for being wonderful, and continuing to help me figure this story out :) 
> 
> -
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/)


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